BOOK V.

CHAPTER i. -- A ROUT.

The day at length arrived of which the evening and the entrance of

company were, for the first time, as eagerly wished by Cecilia as by her

dissipated host and hostess. No expence and no pains had been spared to

render this long projected entertainment splendid and elegant; it was to

begin with a concert, which was to be followed by a ball, and succeeded

by a supper.

Cecilia, though unusually anxious about her own affairs, was not

so engrossed by them as to behold with indifference a scene of such

unjustifiable extravagance; it contributed to render her thoughtful and

uneasy, and to deprive her of all mental power of participating in the

gaiety of the assembly. Mr Arnott was yet more deeply affected by the

mad folly of the scheme, and received from the whole evening no other

satisfaction than that which a look of sympathetic concern from Cecilia

occasionally afforded him.

Till nine o'clock no company appeared, except Sir Robert Floyer,

who stayed from dinner time, and Mr Morrice, who having received an

invitation for the evening, was so much delighted with the permission

to again enter the house, that he made use of it between six and

seven o'clock, and before the family had left the dining parlour. He

apologized with the utmost humility to Cecilia for the unfortunate

accident at the Pantheon; but as to her it had been productive of

nothing but pleasure, by exciting in young Delvile the most flattering

alarm for her safety, she found no great difficulty in according him her

pardon.

Among those who came in the first crowd was Mr Monckton, who, had he

been equally unconscious of sinister views, would in following his own

inclination, have been as early in his attendance as Mr Morrice; but

who, to obviate all suspicious remarks, conformed to the fashionable

tardiness of the times.

Cecilia's chief apprehension for the evening was that Sir Robert Floyer

would ask her to dance with him, which she could not refuse without

sitting still during the ball, nor accept, after the reports she knew

to be spread, without seeming to give a public sanction to them. To Mr

Monckton therefore, innocently considering him as a married man and her

old friend, she frankly told her distress, adding, by way of excuse for

the hint, that the partners were to be changed every two dances.

Mr Monckton, though his principal study was carefully to avoid all

public gallantry or assiduity towards Cecilia, had not the forbearance

to resist this intimation, and therefore she had the pleasure of telling

Sir Robert, when he asked the honour of her hand for the two first

dances, that she was already engaged.

She then expected that he would immediately secure her for the two

following; but, to her great joy, he was so much piqued by the evident

pleasure with which she announced her engagement, that he proudly walked

away without adding another word.

Much satisfied with this arrangement, and not without hopes that, if

she was at liberty when he arrived, she might be applied to by young

Delvile, she now endeavoured to procure herself a place in the music

room.

This, with some difficulty, she effected; but though there was an

excellent concert, in which several capital performers played and sung,

she found it impossible to hear a note, as she chanced to be seated just

by Miss Leeson, and two other young ladies, who were paying one another

compliments upon their dress and their looks, settling to dance in the

same cotillon, guessing who would begin the minuets, and wondering

there were not more gentlemen. Yet, in the midst of this unmeaning

conversation, of which she remarked that Miss Leeson bore the principal

part, not one of them failed, from time to time, to exclaim with great

rapture “What sweet music!--” “Oh! how charming!” “Did you ever hear any

thing so delightful?--”

“Ah,” said Cecilia to Mr Gosport, who now approached her, “but for your

explanatory observations, how much would the sudden loquacity of this

supercilious lady, whom I had imagined all but dumb, have perplext me!”

“Those who are most silent to strangers,” answered Mr Gosport, “commonly

talk most fluently to their intimates, for they are deeply in arrears,

and eager to pay off their debts. Miss Leeson now is in her proper set,

and therefore appears in her natural character; and the poor girl's joy

in being able to utter all the nothings she has painfully hoarded while

separated from her coterie, gives to her now the wild transport of a

bird just let loose from a cage. I rejoice to see the little creature

at liberty, for what can be so melancholy as a forced appearance of

thinking, where there are no materials for such an occupation?”

Soon after, Miss Larolles, who was laughing immoderately, contrived to

crowd herself into their party, calling out to them, “O you have had the

greatest loss in the world! if you had but been in the next room just

now!--there's the drollest figure there you can conceive; enough to

frighten one to look at him.” And presently she added “O Lord, if you

stoop a little this way, you may see him!”

Then followed a general tittering, accompanied with exclamations of

“Lord, what a fright!” “It's enough to kill one with laughing to look at

him!” “Did you ever see such a horrid creature in your life?” And soon

after, one of them screamed out “O Lord, see!--he's grinning at Miss

Beverley!”

Cecilia then turned her head towards the door, and there, to her own

as well as her neighbours' amazement, she perceived Mr Briggs! who, in

order to look about him at his ease, was standing upon a chair, from

which, having singled her out, he was regarding her with a facetious

smirk, which, when it caught her eye, was converted into a familiar nod.

She returned his salutation, but was not much charmed to observe, that

presently descending from his exalted post, which had moved the wonder

and risibility of all the company, he made a motion to approach her; for

which purpose, regardless of either ladies or gentlemen in his way, he

sturdily pushed forward, with the same unconcerned hardiness he would

have forced himself through a crowd in the street; and taking not the

smallest notice of their frowns, supplications that he would stand

still, and exclamations of “Pray, Sir!”--“Lord, how troublesome!” and

“Sir, I do assure you here's no room!” he fairly and adroitly elbowed

them from him till he reached her seat; and then, with a waggish grin,

he looked round, to show he had got the better, and to see whom he had

discomposed.

When he had enjoyed this triumph, he turned to Cecilia, and chucking her

under the chin, said “Well, my little duck, how goes it? got to you at

last; squeezed my way; would not be nicked; warrant I'll mob with the

best of them! Look here! all in a heat!--hot as the dog days.”

And then, to the utter consternation of the company, he took off his wig

to wipe his head! which occasioned such universal horror, that all who

were near the door escaped into other, apartments, while those who were

too much enclosed, for flight, with one accord turned away their heads.

Captain Aresby, being applied to by some of the ladies to remonstrate

upon this unexampled behaviour, advanced to him, and said, “I am

quite abimé, Sir, to incommode you, but the commands of the ladies are

insuperable. Give me leave, Sir, to entreat that you would put on your

wig.”

“My wig?” cried he, “ay, ay, shall in a moment, only want to wipe my

head first.”

“I am quite assommé, Sir,” returned the Captain, “to disturb you, but

I must really hint you don't comprehend me; the ladies are extremely

inconvenienced by these sort of sights, and we make it a principle they

should never be accablées with them.”

“Anan!” cried Mr Briggs, staring.

“I say, Sir,” replied the Captain, “the ladies are quite au desespoir

that you will not cover your head.”

“What for?” cried he, “what's the matter with my head? ne'er a man here

got a better! very good stuff in it; won't change it with ne'er a one of

you!”

And then, half unconscious of the offence he had given, and half angry

at the rebuke he had received, he leisurely compleated his design, and

again put on his wig, settling it to his face with as much composure as

if he had performed the operation in his own dressing-room.

The Captain, having gained his point, walked away, making, however,

various grimaces of disgust, and whispering from side to side “he's the

most petrifying fellow I ever was obsedé by!”

Mr Briggs then, with much derision, and sundry distortions of

countenance, listened to an Italian song; after which, he bustled back

to the outer apartment, in search of Cecilia, who, ashamed of seeming

a party in the disturbance he had excited, had taken the opportunity of

his dispute with the Captain, to run into the next room; where, however,

he presently found her, while she was giving an account to Mr Gosport

of her connection with him, to which Morrice, ever curious and eager to

know what was going forward, was also listening.

“Ah, little chick!” cried he, “got to you again! soon out jostle those

jemmy sparks! But where's the supper? see nothing of the supper! Time to

go to bed,--suppose there is none; all a take in; nothing but a little

piping.”

“Supper, Sir?” cried Cecilia; “the Concert is not over yet. Was supper

mentioned in your card of invitation?”

“Ay, to be sure, should not have come else. Don't visit often; always

costs money. Wish I had not come now; wore a hole in my shoe; hardly a

crack in it before.”

“Why you did not walk, Sir?”

“Did, did; why not? Might as well have stayed away though; daubed my

best coat, like to have spoilt it.”

“So much the better for the taylors, Sir,” said Morrice, pertly, “for

then you must have another.”

“Another! what for? ha'n't had this seven years; just as good as new.”

“I hope,” said Cecilia, “you had not another fall?”

“Worse, worse; like to have lost my bundle.”

“What bundle, Sir?”

“Best coat and waistcoat; brought 'em in my handkerchief, purpose to

save them. When will Master Harrel do as much?”

“But had you no apprehensions, Sir,” said Mr Gosport drily, “that the

handkerchief would be the sooner worn out for having a knot tied in it?”

“Took care of that, tied it slack. Met an unlucky boy; little dog gave

it a pluck; knot slipt; coat and waistcoat popt out.”

“But what became of the boy, Sir?” cried Morrice, “I hope he got off?”

“Could not run for laughing; caught him in a minute; gave him something

to laugh for; drubbed him soundly.”

“O poor fellow!” cried Morrice with a loud hallow, “I am really sorry

for him. But pray, Sir, what became of your best coat and waistcoat

while you gave him this drubbing? did you leave them in the dirt?”

“No, Mr Nincompoop,” answered Briggs angrily, “I put them on a stall.”

“That was a perilous expedient, Sir,” said Mr Gosport, “and I should

fear might be attended with ill consequences, for the owner of the stall

would be apt to expect some little douçeur. How did you manage, Sir?”

“Bought a halfpenny worth of apples. Serve for supper to-morrow night.”

“But how, Sir, did you get your cloaths dried, or cleaned?”

“Went to an alehouse; cost me half a pint.”

“And pray, Sir,” cried Morrice, “where, at last, did you make your

toilette?”

“Sha'n't tell, sha'n't tell; ask no more questions. What signifies where

a man slips on a coat and waist-coat?”

“Why, Sir, this will prove an expensive expedition to you,” said Mr

Gosport, very gravely; “Have you cast up what it may cost you?”

“More than it's worth, more than it's worth,” answered he pettishly

“ha'n't laid out so much in pleasure these five years.”

“Ha! ha!” cried Morrice, hallowing aloud, “why it can't be more than

sixpence in all!”

“Sixpence?” repeated he scornfully, “if you don't know the value of

sixpence, you'll never be worth fivepence three farthings. How do think

got rich, hay?--by wearing fine coats, and frizzling my pate? No, no;

Master Harrel for that! ask him if he'll cast an account with me!--never

knew a man worth a penny with such a coat as that on.”

Morrice again laughed, and again Mr Briggs reproved him; and Cecilia,

taking advantage of the squabble, stole back to the music-room. Here, in

a few minutes, Mrs Panton, a lady who frequently visited at the house,

approached Cecilia, followed by a gentleman, whom she had never before

seen, but who was so evidently charmed with her, that he had looked

at no other object since his entrance into the house. Mrs Panton,

presenting him to her by the name of Mr Marriot, told her he had begged

her intercession for the honour of her hand in the two first dances; and

the moment she answered that she was already engaged, the same request

was made for the two following. Cecilia had then no excuse, and was

therefore obliged to accept him.

The hope she had entertained in the early part of the evening, was

already almost wholly extinguished; Delvile appeared not! though her

eye watched the entrance of every new visitor, and her vexation made her

believe that he alone, of all the town, was absent.

When the Concert was over, the company joined promiscuously for chat

and refreshments before the ball; and Mr Gosport advanced to Cecilia, to

relate a ridiculous dispute which had just passed between Mr Briggs and

Morrice.

“You, Mr Gosport,” said Cecilia, “who seem to make the minutiae of

absurd characters your study, can explain to me, perhaps, why Mr Briggs

seems to have as much pleasure in proclaiming his meanness, as in

boasting his wealth?”

“Because,” answered Mr Gosport, “he knows them, in his own affairs,

to be so nearly allied, that but for practising the one, he had

never possessed the other; ignorant, therefore, of all

discrimination,--except, indeed, of pounds, shillings and pence!--he

supposes them necessarily inseparable, because with him they were

united. What you, however, call meanness, he thinks wisdom, and

recollects, therefore, not with shame but with triumph, the various

little arts and subterfuges by which his coffers have been filled.”

Here Lord Ernolf, concluding Cecilia still disengaged from seeing her

only discourse with Mr Gosport and Mr Monckton, one of them was old

enough to be her father, and the other was a married man, advanced,

and presenting to her Lord Derford, his son, a youth not yet of age,

solicited for him the honour of her hand as his partner.

Cecilia, having a double excuse, easily declined this proposal; Lord

Ernolf, however, was too earnest to be repulsed, and told her he should

again try his interest when her two present engagements were fulfilled.

Hopeless, now, of young Delvile, she heard this intimation with

indifference; and was accompanying Mr Monckton into the ballroom, when

Miss Larolles, flying towards her with an air of infinite eagerness,

caught her hand, and said in a whisper “pray let me wish you joy!”

“Certainly!” said Cecilia, “but pray let me ask you of what?”

“O Lord, now,” answered she, “I am sure you know what I mean; but you

must know I have a prodigious monstrous great favour to beg of you; now

pray don't refuse me; I assure you if you do, I shall be so mortified

you've no notion.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Nothing but to let me be one of your bride maids. I assure you I shall

take it as the greatest favour in the world.”

“My bride maid!” cried Cecilia; “but do you not think the bridegroom

himself will be rather offended to find a bridesmaid appointed, before

he is even thought of?”

“O pray, now,” cried she, “don't be ill-natured, for if you are, you've

no idea how I shall be disappointed. Only conceive what happened to me

three weeks ago! you must know I was invited to Miss Clinton's wedding,

and so I made up a new dress on purpose, in a very particular sort of

shape, quite of my own invention, and it had the sweetest effect you can

conceive; well, and when the time came, do you know her mother happened

to die! Never any thing was so excessive unlucky, for now she won't be

married this half year, and my dress will be quite old and yellow; for

it's all white, and the most beautiful thing you ever saw in your life.”

“Upon my word you are very obliging!” cried Cecilia laughing; “and pray

do you make interest regularly round with all your female acquaintance

to be married upon this occasion, or am I the only one you think this

distress will work upon?”

“Now how excessive teazing!” cried Miss Larolles, “when you know so well

what I mean, and when all the town knows as well as myself.”

Cecilia then seriously enquired whether she had really any meaning at

all.

“Lord yes,” answered she, “you know I mean about Sir Robert Floyer; for

I'm told you've quite refused Lord Derford.”

“And are you also told that I have accepted Sir Robert Floyer?”

“O dear yes!--the jewels are bought, and the equipages are built; it's

quite a settled thing, I know very well.”

Cecilia then very gravely began an attempt to undeceive her; but the

dancing beginning also at the same time, she stayed not to hear her,

hurrying, with a beating heart, to the place of action. Mr Monckton and

his fair partner then followed, mutually exclaiming against Mr Harrel's

impenetrable conduct; of which Cecilia, however, in a short time

ceased wholly to think, for as soon as the first cotillon was over, she

perceived young Delvile just walking into the room.

Surprise, pleasure and confusion assailed her all at once; she had

entirely given up her expectation of seeing him, and an absence so

determined had led her to conclude he had pursuits which ought to make

her join in wishing it lengthened; but now he appeared, that conclusion,

with the fears that gave rise to it, vanished; and she regretted nothing

but the unfortunate succession of engagements which would prevent her

dancing with him at all, and probably keep off all conversation with him

till supper time.

She soon, however, perceived a change in his air and behaviour that

extremely astonished her; he looked grave and thoughtful, saluted her

at a distance, shewed no sign of any intention to approach her, regarded

the dancing and dancers as a public spectacle in which he had no chance

of personal interest, and seemed wholly altered, not merely with respect

to her, but to himself, as his former eagerness for her society was not

more abated than [his] former general gaiety.

She had no time, however, for comments, as she was presently called

to the second cotillon; but the confused and unpleasant ideas which,

without waiting for time or reflection, crowded upon her imagination

on observing his behaviour, were not more depressing to herself, than

obvious to her partner; Mr Monckton by the change in her countenance

first perceived the entrance of young Delvile, and by her apparent

emotion and uneasiness, readily penetrated into the state of her mind;

he was confirmed that her affections were engaged; he saw, too, that she

was doubtful with what return.

The grief with which he made the first discovery, was somewhat lessened

by the hopes he conceived from, the second; yet the evening was to him

as painful as to Cecilia, since he now knew that whatever prosperity'

might ultimately attend his address and assiduity, her heart was not

her own to bestow; and that even were he sure of young Delvile's

indifference, and actually at liberty to make proposals for himself,

the time of being first in her esteem was at an end, and the long-earned

good opinion which he had hoped would have ripened into affection, might

now be wholly undermined by the sudden impression of a lively stranger,

without trouble to himself, and perhaps without pleasure!

Reflections such as these wholly embittered the delight he had promised

himself from dancing with her, and took from him all power to combat the

anxiety with which she was seized; when the second cotillon, therefore,

was over, instead of following her to a seat, or taking the privilege of

his present situation to converse with her, the jealousy rising in his

breast robbed him of all satisfaction, and gave to him no other desire

than to judge its justice by watching her motions at a distance.

Mean while Cecilia, inattentive whether he accompanied or quitted her

proceeded to the first vacant seat. Young Delvile was standing near it,

and, in a short time, but rather as if he could not avoid than as if he

wished it, he came to enquire how she did.

The simplest question, in the then situation of her mind, was sufficient

to confuse her, and though she answered, she hardly knew what he had

asked. A minute's recollection, however, restored an apparent composure,

and she talked to him of Mrs Delvile, with her usual partial regard

for that lady, and with an earnest endeavour to seem unconscious of any

alteration in his behaviour.

Yet, to him, even this trifling and general conversation was evidently

painful, and he looked relieved by the approach of Sir Robert Floyer,

who soon after joined them.

At this time a young lady who was sitting by Cecilia, called to a

servant who was passing, for a glass of lemonade; Cecilia desired

he would bring her one also; but Delvile, not sorry to break off the

discourse, said he would himself be her cup-bearer, and for that purpose

went away.

A moment after, the servant returned with some lemonade to Cecilia's

neighbour, and Sir Robert, taking a glass from him, brought it to

Cecilia at the very instant young Delvile came with another.

“I think I am before hand with you, Sir,” said the insolent Baronet.

“No, Sir,” answered young Delvile, “I think we were both in together;

Miss Beverley, however, is steward of the race, and we must submit to

her decision.”

“Well, madam,” cried Sir Robert, “here we stand, waiting your pleasure.

Which is to be the happy man!”

“Each, I hope,” answered Cecilia, with admirable presence of mind,

“since I expect no less than that you will both do me the honour of

drinking my health.”

This little contrivance, which saved her alike from shewing favour or

giving offence, could not but be applauded by both parties; and while

they obeyed her orders, she took a third glass herself from the servant.

While this was passing, Mr Briggs, again perceiving her, stumpt hastily

towards her, calling out “Ah ha! my duck! what's that? got something

nice? Come here, my lad, taste it myself.”

He then took a glass, but having only put it to his mouth, made a wry

face, and returned it, saying “Bad! bad! poor punch indeed!--not a drop

of rum in it!

“So much the better, Sir,” cried Morrice, who diverted himself by

following him, “for then you see the master of the house spares in

something, and you said he spared in nothing.”

“Don't spare in fools!” returned Mr Briggs, “keeps them in plenty.”

“No, Sir, nor in any out of the way characters,” answered Morrice.

“So much the worse,” cried Briggs, “so much the worse! Eat him out of

house and home; won't leave him a rag to his back nor a penny in his

pocket. Never mind 'em, my little duck; mind none of your guardians but

me; t'other two a'n't worth a rush.”

Cecilia, somewhat ashamed of this speech, looked towards young Delvile,

in whom it occasioned the first smile she had seen that evening.

“Been looking about for you!” continued Briggs, nodding

sagaciously; “believe I've found one will do. Guess what I

mean;--£100,0000--hay?--what say to that? any thing better at the west

end of the town?”

“£100,000!” cried Morrice, “and pray, Sir, who may this be?”

“Not you, Mr jackanapes! sure of that. A'n't quite positive he'll have

you, neither. Think he will, though.”

“Pray; Sir, what age is he?” cried the never daunted Morrice.

“Why about--let's see--don't know, never heard,--what signifies?”

“But, Sir, he's an old man, I suppose, by being so rich?”

“Old? no, no such thing; about my own standing.”

“What, Sir, and do you propose him for an husband to Miss Beverley?”

“Why not? know ever a one warmer? think Master Harrel will get her a

better? or t'other old Don, in the grand square?”

“If you please, Sir,” cried Cecilia hastily, “we will talk of this

matter another time.”

“No, pray,” cried young Delvile, who could not forbear laughing, “let it

be discussed now.”

“Hate 'em,” continued Mr Briggs, “hate 'em both! one spending more than

he's worth, cheated and over-reached by fools, running into gaol to

please a parcel of knaves; t'other counting nothing but uncles and

grandfathers, dealing out fine names instead of cash, casting up more

cousins than guineas--”

Again Cecilia endeavoured to silence him, but, only chucking her under

the chin, he went on, “Ay, ay, my little duck, never mind 'em; one of

'em i'n't worth a penny, and t'other has nothing in his pockets but

lists of the defunct. What good will come of that? would not give

twopence a dozen for 'em! A poor set of grandees, with nothing but a

tie-wig for their portions!”

Cecilia, unable to bear this harangue in the presence of young Delvile,

who, however, laughed it off with a very good grace, arose with an

intention to retreat, which being perceived by Sir Robert Floyer, who

had attended to this dialogue with haughty contempt, he came forward,

and said, “now then, madam, may I have the honour of your hand?”

“No, Sir,” answered Cecilia, “I am engaged.”

“Engaged again?” cried he, with the air of a man who thought himself

much injured.

“Glad of it, glad of it!” said Mr Briggs; “served very right! have

nothing to say to him, my chick!”

“Why not, Sir?” cried Sir Robert, with an imperious look.

“Sha'n't have her, sha'n't have her! can tell you that; won't consent;

know you of old.”

“And what do you know of me, pray Sir?”

“No good, no good; nothing to say to you; found fault with my nose!

ha'n't forgot it.”

At this moment Mr Marriot came to claim his partner, who, very willing

to quit this scene of wrangling and vulgarity, immediately attended

him. Miss Larolles, again flying up to her, said “O my dear, we are all

expiring to know who that creature is! I never saw such a horrid fright

in my life!”

Cecilia was beginning to satisfy her, but some more young ladies coming

up to join in the request, she endeavoured to pass on; “O but,” cried

Miss Larolles, detaining her, “do pray stop, for I've something to tell

you that's so monstrous you've no idea. Do you know Mr Meadows has not

danced at all! and he's been standing with Mr Sawyer, and looking on all

the time, and whispering and laughing so you've no notion. However, I

assure you, I'm excessive glad he did not ask me, for all I have been

sitting still all this time, for I had a great deal rather sit still, I

assure you; only I'm sorry I put on this dress, for any thing would have

done just to look on in that stupid manner.”

Here Mr Meadows sauntered towards them; and all the young ladies

began playing with their fans, and turning their heads another way, to

disguise the expectations his approach awakened; and Miss Larolles, in

a hasty whisper to Cecilia, cried, “Pray don't take any notice of what

I said, for if he should happen to ask me, I can't well refuse him, you

know, for if I do, he'll be so excessive affronted you can't think.”

Mr Meadows then, mixing in the little group, began, with sundry

grimaces, to exclaim “how intolerably hot it is! there's no such thing

as breathing. How can anybody think of dancing! I am amazed Mr Harrel

has not a ventilator in this room. Don't you think it would be a great

improvement?”

This speech, though particularly addressed to no one, received

immediately an assenting answer from all the young ladies.

Then, turning to Miss Larolles, “Don't you dance?” he said.

“Me?” cried she, embarrassed, “yes, I believe so,--really I don't

know,--I a'n't quite determined.”

“O, do dance!” cried he, stretching himself and yawning, “it always

gives me spirits to see you.”

Then, turning suddenly to Cecilia, without any previous ceremony of

renewing his acquaintance, either by speaking or bowing, he abruptly

said “Do you love dancing, ma'am?”

“Yes, Sir, extremely well.”

“I'm very glad to hear it. You have one thing, then, to soften

existence.”

“Do you dislike it yourself?”

“What dancing? Oh dreadful! how it was ever adopted in a civilized

country I cannot find out; 'tis certainly a Barbarian exercise, and of

savage origin. Don't you think so, Miss Larolles?”

“Lord no,” cried Miss Larolles, “I assure you I like it better than any

thing; I know nothing so delightful, I declare I dare say I could not

live without it; I should be so stupid you can't conceive.”

“Why I remember,” said Mr Marriot, “when Mr Meadows was always dancing

himself. Have you forgot, Sir, when you used to wish the night would

last for ever, that you might dance without ceasing?”

Mr Meadows, who was now intently surveying a painting that was over the

chimney-piece, seemed not to hear this question, but presently called

out “I am amazed Mr Harrel can suffer such a picture as this to be in

his house. I hate a portrait, 'tis so wearisome looking at a thing that

is doing nothing!”

“Do you like historical pictures, Sir, any better?”

“O no, I detest them! views of battles, murders, and death! Shocking!

shocking!--I shrink from them with horror!”

“Perhaps you are fond of landscapes?”

“By no means! Green trees and fat cows! what do they tell one? I hate

every thing that is insipid.”

“Your toleration, then,” said Cecilia, “will not be very extensive.”

“No,” said he, yawning, “one can tolerate nothing! one's patience is

wholly exhausted by the total tediousness of every thing one sees, and

every body one talks with. Don't you find it so, ma'am?”

“Sometimes!” said Cecilia, rather archly.

“You are right, ma'am, extremely right; one does not know what in the

world to do with one's self. At home, one is killed with meditation,

abroad, one is overpowered by ceremony; no possibility of finding ease

or comfort. You never go into public, I think, ma'am?”

“Why not to be much marked, I find!” said Cecilia, laughing.

“O, I beg your pardon! I believe I saw you one evening at Almack's; I

really beg your pardon, but I had quite forgot it.”

“Lord, Mr Meadows,” said Miss Larolles, “don't you know you are meaning

the Pantheon? only conceive how you forget things!”

“The Pantheon, was it? I never know one of those places from another.

I heartily wish they were all abolished; I hate public places. 'Tis

terrible to be under the same roof with a set of people who would care

nothing if they saw one expiring!”

“You are, at least, then, fond of the society of your friends?”

“O no! to be worn out by seeing always the same faces!--one is sick to

death of friends; nothing makes one so melancholy.”

Cecilia now went to join the dancers, and Mr Meadows, turning to Miss

Larolles, said, “Pray don't let me keep you from dancing; I am afraid

you'll lose your place.”

“No,” cried she, bridling, “I sha'n't dance at all.”

“How cruel!” cried he, yawning, “when you know how it exhilarates me

to see you! Don't you think this room is very close? I must go and try

another atmosphere,--But I hope you will relent, and dance?”

And then, stretching his arms as if half asleep, he sauntered into the

next room, where he flung himself upon a sofa till the ball was over.

The new partner of Cecilia, who was a wealthy, but very simple young

man, used his utmost efforts to entertain and oblige her, and, flattered

by the warmth of his own desire, he fancied that he succeeded; though,

in a state of such suspence and anxiety, a man of brighter talents had

failed.

At the end of the two dances, Lord Ernolf again attempted to engage her

for his son, but she now excused herself from dancing any more, and

sat quietly as a spectatress till the rest of the company gave over. Mr

Marriot, however, would not quit her, and she was compelled to support

with him a trifling conversation, which, though irksome to herself, to

him, who had not seen her in her happier hour, was delightful.

She expected every instant to be again joined by young Delvile, but

the expectation was disappointed; he came not; she concluded he was in

another apartment; the company was summoned to supper, she then thought

it impossible to miss him; but, after waiting and looking for him in

vain, she found he had already left the house.

The rest of the evening she scarce knew what passed, for she attended

to nothing; Mr Monckton might watch, and Mr Briggs might exhort her, Sir

Robert might display his insolence, or Mr Marriot his gallantry,--all

was equally indifferent, and equally unheeded; and before half the

company left the house, she retired to her own room.

She spent the night in the utmost disturbance; the occurrences of the

evening with respect to young Delvile she looked upon as decisive; if

his absence had chagrined her, his presence had still more shocked her,

since, while she was left to conjecture, though she had fears she had

hopes, and though all she saw was gloomy, all she expected was pleasant;

but they had now met, and those expectations proved fallacious. She knew

not, indeed, how to account for the strangeness of his conduct; but in

seeing it was strange, she was convinced it was unfavourable; he had

evidently avoided her while it was in his power, and when, at last, he

was obliged to meet her, he was formal, distant, and reserved.

The more she recollected and dwelt upon the difference of his behaviour

in their preceding meeting, the more angry as well as amazed she became

at the change, and though she still concluded the pursuit of some other

object occasioned it, she could find no excuse for his fickleness if

that pursuit was recent, nor for his caprice if it was anterior.

CHAPTER ii. -- A BROAD HINT.

The next day Cecilia, to drive Delvile a little from her thoughts,

which she now no longer wished him to occupy, again made a visit to Miss

Belfield, whose society afforded her more consolation than any other she

could procure.

She found her employed in packing up, and preparing to remove to another

lodging, for her brother, she said, was so much better, that he did not

think it right to continue in so disgraceful a situation.

She talked with her accustomed openness of her affairs, and the interest

which Cecilia involuntarily took in them, contributed to lessen her

vexation in thinking of her own. “The generous friend of my brother,”

said she, “who, though but a new acquaintance to him, has courted him

in all his sorrows, when every body else forsook him, has brought him at

last into a better way of thinking. He says there is a gentleman whose

son is soon going abroad, who he is almost sure will like my brother

vastly, and in another week, he is to be introduced to him. And so, if

my mother can but reconcile herself to parting with him, perhaps we may

all do well again.”

“Your mother,” said Cecilia, “when he is gone, will better know the

value of the blessing she has left in her daughter.”

“O no, madam, no; she is wrapt up in him, and cares nothing for all the

world besides. It was always so, and we have all of us been used to it.

But we have had a sad scene since you were so kind as to come last; for

when she told him what you had done, he was almost out of his senses

with anger that we had acquainted you with his distress, and he said it

was publishing his misery, and undoing whatever his friend or himself

could do, for it was making him ashamed to appear in the world, even

when his affairs might be better. But I told him again and again that

you had as much sweetness as goodness, and instead of hurting his

reputation, would do him nothing but credit.”

“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “Mrs Belfield mentioned the circumstance

at all; it would have been better, for many reasons, that he should not

have heard of it.”

“She hoped it would please him,” answered Miss Belfield, “however, he

made us both promise we would take no such step in future, for he said

we were not reduced to so much indigence, whatever he was; and that as

to our accepting money from other people, that we might save up our own

for him, it would be answering no purpose, for he should think himself a

monster to make use of it.”

“And what said your mother?”

“Why she gave him a great many promises that she would never vex him

about it again; and indeed, much as I know we are obliged to you, madam,

and gratefully as I am sure I would lay down my life to serve you, I am

very glad in this case that my brother has found it out. For though I so

much wish him to do something for himself, and not to be so proud, and

live in a manner he has no right to do, I think, for all that, that it

is a great disgrace to my' poor father's honest memory, to have us turn

beggars after his death, when he left us all so well provided for, if we

had but known how to be satisfied.”

“There is a natural rectitude in your heart,” said Cecilia, “that the

ablest casuists could not mend.”

She then enquired whither they were removing, and Miss Belfield told her

to Portland Street, Oxford Road, where they were to have two apartments

up two pair of stairs, and the use of a very good parlour, in which her

brother might see his friends. “And this,” added she, “is a luxury for

which nobody can blame him, because if he has not the appearance of a

decent home, no gentleman will employ him.”

The Padington house, she said, was already let, and her mother was

determined not to hire another, but still to live as penuriously as

possible, in order, notwithstanding his remonstrances, to save all she

could of her income for her son.

Here the conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Mrs Belfield,

who very familiarly said she came to tell Cecilia they were all in the

wrong box in letting her son know of the £10 bank note, “for,” continued

she, “he has a pride that would grace a duke, and he thinks nothing of

his hardships, so long as nobody knows of them. So another time we must

manage things better, and when we do him any good, not let him know a

word of the matter. We'll settle it all among ourselves, and one day or

other he'll be glad enough to thank us.”

Cecilia, who saw Miss Belfield colour with shame at the freedom of this

hint, now arose to depart; but Mrs Belfield begged her not to go so

soon, and pressed her with such urgency to again sit down, that she was

obliged to comply.

She then began a warm commendation of her son, lavishly praising all his

good qualities, and exalting even his defects, concluding with saying

“But, ma'am, for all he's such a complete gentleman, and for all he's

made so much of, he was so diffident, I could not get him to call and

thank you for the present you made him, though, when he went his last

airing, I almost knelt to him to do it. But, with all his merit, he

wants as much encouragement as a lady, for I can tell you it is not a

little will do for him.”

Cecilia, amazed at this extraordinary speech, looked from the mother to

the daughter in order to discover its meaning, which, however, was soon

rendered plainer by what followed.

“But pray now, ma'am, don't think him the more ungrateful for his

shyness, for young ladies so high in the world as you are, must go

pretty good lengths before a young man will get courage to speak to

them. And though I have told my son over and over that the ladies never

like a man the worse for being a little bold, he's so much down in the

mouth that it has no effect upon him. But it all comes of his being

brought up at the university, for that makes him think he knows better

than I can tell him. And so, to be sure, he does. However, for all that,

it is a hard thing upon a mother to find all she says goes just for

nothing. But I hope you'll excuse him, ma'am, for it's nothing in the

world but his over-modesty.”

Cecilia now stared with a look of so much astonishment and displeasure,

that Mrs Belfield, suspecting she had gone rather too far, added “I beg

you won't take what I've said amiss, ma'am, for we mothers of families

are more used to speak out than maiden ladies. And I should not have

said so much, but only I was afraid you would misconstrue my son's

backwardness, and so that he might be flung out of your favour at last,

and all for nothing but having too much respect for you.”

“O dear mother!” cried Miss Belfield, whose face was the colour of

scarlet, “pray!”--

“What's the matter now?” cried Mrs Belfield; “you are as shy as

your brother; and if we are all to be so, when are we to come to an

understanding?”

“Not immediately, I believe indeed,” said Cecilia, rising, “but that we

may not plunge deeper in our mistakes, I will for the present take my

leave.”

“No, ma'am,” cried Mrs Belfield, stopping her, “pray don't go yet, for

I've got a great many things I want to talk to you about. In the first

place, ma'am, pray what is your opinion of this scheme for sending my

son abroad into foreign parts? I don't know what you may think of it,

but as to me, it half drives me out of my senses to have him taken away

from me at last in that unnatural manner. And I'm sure, ma'am, if you

would only put in a word against it, I dare say he would give it up

without a demur.”

“Me?” cried Cecilia, disengaging herself from her hold, “No, madam, you

must apply to those friends who better understand his affairs, and who

would have a deeper interest in detaining him.”

“Lack a day!” cried Mrs Belfield, with scarcely smothered vexation, “how

hard it is to make these grand young ladies come to reason! As to my

son's other friends, what good will it do for him to mind what they say?

who can expect him to give up his journey, without knowing what amends

he shall get for it?”

“You must settle this matter with him at your leisure,” said Cecilia, “I

cannot now stay another moment.”

Mrs Belfield, again finding she had been too precipitate, tried to draw

back, saying “Pray, ma'am, don't let what I have mentioned go against my

son in your good opinion, for he knows no more of it than the furthest

person in the world, as my daughter can testify for as to shyness,

he's just as shy as a lady himself; so what good he ever got at the

University, as to the matter of making his fortune, it's what I never

could discover. However, I dare say he knows best; though when all comes

to all, if I was to speak my mind, I think he's made but a poor hand of

it.”

Cecilia, who only through compassion to the blushing Henrietta forbore

repressing this forwardness more seriously, merely answered Mrs Belfield

by wishing her good morning; but, while she was taking a kinder leave of

her timid daughter, the mother added “As to the present, ma'am, you was

so kind to make us, Henny can witness for me every penny of it shall go

to my son.”

“I rather meant it,” said Cecilia, “for your daughter; but if it is of

use to any body, my purpose is sufficiently answered.”

Mrs Belfield again pressed her to sit down, but she would not again

listen to her, coldly saying “I am sorry you troubled Mr Belfield with

any mention of what passed between his sister and me, but should you

speak of it again, I beg you will explain to him that he had no concern

in that little transaction, which belonged wholly to ourselves.”

She then hastened down stairs, followed, however, by Mrs Belfield,

making awkward excuses for what she had said, intermixed with frequent

hints that she knew all the time she was in the right.

This little incident, which convinced Cecilia Mrs Belfield was firmly

persuaded she was in love with her son, gave her much uneasiness; she

feared the son himself might entertain the same notion, and thought

it most probable the daughter also had imbibed it, though but for the

forward vulgarity of the sanguine mother, their opinions might long have

remained concealed. Her benevolence towards them, notwithstanding its

purity, must now therefore cease to be exerted; nor could she even

visit Miss Belfield, since prudence, and a regard for her own character,

seemed immediately to prohibit all commerce with the family.

“And thus difficult,” cried she, “is the blameless use of riches,

though; all who want them, think nothing so easy as their disposal! This

family I have so much wished to serve, I may at last only have injured,

since the disappointment of their higher expectations, may render all

smaller benefits contemptible. And thus this unfortunate misconstruction

of my good offices, robs them of a useful assistant, and deprives me at

the same time of an amiable companion.”

As soon as she returned home, she had a letter put into her hand which

came from Mr Marriot, whose servant had twice called for an answer in

the short time she had been absent.

This letter contained a most passionate avowal of the impression she had

made on his heart the preceding evening, and an angry complaint that Mr

Harrel had refused to hear his proposals. He entreated her permission to

wait upon her for only five minutes, and concluded with the most fervent

professions of respect and admiration.

The precipitancy of this declaration served merely to confirm the

opinion she had already conceived of the weakness of his understanding;

but the obstinacy of Mr Harrel irritated and distressed her, though

weary of expostulating with so hopeless a subject, whom neither reason

nor gratitude could turn from his own purposes, she was obliged to

submit to his management, and was well content, in the present instance,

to affirm his decree. She therefore wrote a concise answer to her new

admirer, in the usual form of civil rejection.

CHAPTER iii. -- AN ACCOMMODATION.

Cecilia was informed the next morning that a young woman begged to speak

with her, and upon sending for her up stairs, she saw, to her great

surprise, Miss Belfield.

She came in fear and trembling, sent, she said, by her mother, to

entreat her pardon for what had passed the preceding day; “But I know,

madam,” she added, “you cannot pardon it, and therefore all that I mean

to do is to clear my brother from any share in what was said, for indeed

he has too much sense to harbour any such presumption; and to thank you

with a most grateful heart for all the goodness you have shewn us.”

And then, modestly courtsying, she would have returned home; but

Cecilia, much touched by her gentleness, took her hand, and kindly

reviving her by assurances of esteem, entreated that she would lengthen

her stay.

“How good is this, madam,” said she, “after having so much reason to

think so ill of me and of all of us I tried all in my power to undeceive

my mother, or at least to keep her quiet; but she was so much persuaded

she was right, that she never would listen to me, and always said, did I

suppose it was for me you condescended to come so often?”

“Yes,” answered Cecilia, “most undoubtedly; had I not known you, however

well I might have wished your brother, I should certainly not have

visited at his house. But I am very happy to hear the mistake had spread

no further.”

“No indeed, madam, I never once thought of it; and as to my brother,

when my mother only hinted it to him, he was quite angry. But though

I don't mean to vindicate what has happened, you will not, I hope, be

displeased if I say my mother is much more pardonable than she seems to

be, for the same mistake she made with you, she would have been as apt

to have made with a princess; it was not, therefore, from any want of

respect, but merely from thinking my brother might marry as high as he

pleased, and believing no lady would refuse him, if he would but have

the courage to speak.”

Cecilia assured her she would think no more of the error, but told her

that to avoid its renewal, she must decline calling upon her again till

her brother was gone. She begged therefore to see her in Portman-square

whenever she had leisure, repeatedly assuring her of her good opinion

and regard, and of the pleasure with which she should seize every

opportunity of shewing them.

Delighted by a reception so kind, Miss Belfield remained with her all

the morning; and when at last she was obliged to leave her, she was but

too happy in being solicited to repeat her visit.

She suffered one day only to elapse before she shewed her readiness to

accept the friendship that was offered her; and Cecilia, much pleased by

this eagerness, redoubled her efforts to oblige and to serve her.

From this time, hardly a day passed in which she did not call in

Portman-square, where nothing in her reception was omitted that could

contribute to her contentment. Cecilia was glad to employ her mind in

any way that related not to Delvile, whom she now earnestly endeavoured

to think of no more, denying herself even the pleasure of talking of him

with Miss Belfield, by the name of her brother's noble friend.

During this time she devised various methods, all too delicate to

give even the shadow of offence, for making both useful and ornamental

presents to her new favourite, with whom she grew daily more satisfied,

and to whom she purposed hereafter offering a residence in her own

house.

The trial of intimacy, so difficult to the ablest to stand, and from

which even the most faultless are so rarely acquitted, Miss Belfield

sustained with honour. Cecilia found her artless, ingenuous, and

affectionate; her understanding was good, though no pains had been taken

to improve it; her disposition though ardent was soft, and her mind

seemed informed by intuitive integrity.

She communicated to Cecilia all the affairs of her family, disguising

from her neither distress nor meanness, and seeking to palliate nothing

but the grosser parts of the character of her mother. She seemed equally

ready to make known to her even the most chosen secrets of her own

bosom, for that such she had was evident, from a frequent appearance

of absence and uneasiness which she took but little trouble to conceal.

Cecilia, however, trusted not herself, in the present critical situation

of her own mind, with any enquiries that might lead to a subject she was

conscious she ought not to dwell upon; a short time, she hoped, would

totally remove her suspence; but as she had much less reason to expect

good than evil, she made it her immediate study to prepare for the

worst, and therefore carefully avoided all discourse that by nourishing

her tenderness, might weaken her resolution.

While thus, in friendly conversation and virtuous forbearance, passed

gravely, but not unhappily, the time of Cecilia, the rest of the house

was very differently employed; feasting, revelling, amusements of all

sorts were pursued with more eagerness than ever, and the alarm which so

lately threatened their destruction, seemed now merely to heighten

the avidity with which they were sought. Yet never was the disunion of

happiness and diversion more striking and obvious; Mr Harrel, in spite

of his natural levity, was seized from time to time with fits of horror

that embittered his gayest moments, and cast a cloud upon all his

enjoyments. Always an enemy to solitude, he now found it wholly

insupportable, and ran into company of any sort, less from a hope of

finding entertainment, than from a dread of spending half an hour by

himself.

Cecilia, who saw that his rapacity for pleasure encreased with his

uneasiness, once more ventured to speak with his lady upon the subject

of reformation; counselling her to take advantage of his present

apparent discontent, which showed at least some sensibility of his

situation, in order to point out to him the necessity of an immediate

inspection into his affairs, which, with a total change in his way of

life, was her only chance for snatching him from the dismal despondency

into which he was sinking.

Mrs Harrel declared herself unequal to following this advice, and said

that her whole study was to find Mr Harrel amusement, for he was grown

so ill-humoured and petulant she quite feared being alone with him.

The house therefore now was more crowded than ever, and nothing but

dissipation was thought of. Among those who upon this plan were courted

to it, the foremost was Mr Morrice, who, from a peculiar talent of

uniting servility of conduct with gaiety of speech, made himself at once

so agreeable and useful in the family, that in a short time they fancied

it impossible to live without him. And Morrice, though his first view in

obtaining admittance had been the cultivation of his acquaintance with

Cecilia, was perfectly satisfied with the turn that matters had taken,

since his utmost vanity had never led him to entertain any matrimonial

hopes with her, and he thought his fortune as likely to profit from the

civility of her friends as of herself. For Morrice, however flighty, and

wild, had always at heart the study of his own interest; and though from

a giddy forwardness of disposition he often gave offence, his meaning

and his serious attention was not the less directed to the advancement

of his own affairs; he formed no connection from which he hoped not

some benefit, and he considered the acquaintance and friendship of his

superiors in no other light than that of procuring him sooner or later

recommendations to new clients.

Sir Robert Floyer also was more frequent than ever in his visits, and

Mr Harrel, notwithstanding the remonstrances of Cecilia, contrived every

possible opportunity of giving him access to her. Mrs Harrel herself,

though hitherto neutral, now pleaded his cause with earnestness; and Mr

Arnott, who had been her former refuge from this persecution, grew so

serious and so tender in his devoirs, that unable any longer to doubt

the sentiments she had inspired, she was compelled even with him to be

guarded and distant.

She now with daily concern looked back to the sacrifice she had made

to the worthless and ungrateful Mr Harrel, and was sometimes tempted to

immediately chuse another guardian, and leave his house for ever;

yet the delicacy of her disposition was averse to any step that might

publicly expose him, and her early regard for his wife would not suffer

her to put it in execution.

These circumstances contributed strongly to encrease her intimacy with

Miss Belfield; she now never saw Mrs Delvile, whom alone she preferred

to her, and from the troublesome assiduity of Sir Robert, scarce ever

met Mr Monckton but in his presence; she found, therefore, no resource

against teazing and vexation, but what was afforded her by the

conversation of the amiable Henrietta.

CHAPTER iv. -- A DETECTION.

A fortnight had now elapsed in which Cecilia had had no sort of

communication with the Delviles, whom equally from pride and from

prudence she forbore to seek for herself, when one morning, while she

was sitting with Miss Belfield, her maid told her that young Mr Delvile

was in the drawing-room, and begged the honour of seeing her for a few

moments.

Cecilia, though she started and changed colour with surprize at this

message, was unconscious she did either, from the yet greater surprise

she received by the behaviour of Miss Belfield, who hastily arising,

exclaimed “Good God, Mr Delvile!--do you know Mr Delvile, madam?--does

Mr Delvile visit at this house?”

“Sometimes; not often,” answered Cecilia; “but why?”

“I don't know,--nothing, madam,--I only asked by accident, I

believe,--but it's very--it's extremely--I did not know”--and colouring

violently, she again sat down.

An apprehension the most painful now took possession of Cecilia,

and absorbed in thought, she continued for some minutes silent and

immoveable.

From this state she was awakened by her maid, who asked if she chose to

have her gloves.

Cecilia, taking them from her without speaking, left the room, and not

daring to stop for enquiry or consideration, hastened down stairs; but

when she entered the apartment where young Delvile was waiting for her,

all utterance seemed denied her, and she courtsied without saying a

word.

Struck with the look and uncommon manner of her entrance, he became in

a moment as much disturbed as herself, pouring forth a thousand

unnecessary and embarrassed apologies for his visit, and so totally

forgetting even the reason why he made it, that he had taken his leave

and was departing before he recollected it. He then turned back, forcing

a laugh at his own absence of mind, and told her he had only called to

acquaint her, that the commands with which she had honoured him were now

obeyed, and, he hoped, to her satisfaction.

Cecilia, who knew not she had ever given him any, waited his further

explanation; and he then informed her he had that very morning

introduced Mr Belfield to the Earl of Vannelt, who had already heard

him very advantageously spoken of by some gentlemen to whom he had been

known at the University, and who was so much pleased with him upon this

first interview, that he meant, after a few enquiries, which could not

but turn out to his credit, to commit his eldest son to his trust in

making the tour of Europe.

Cecilia thanked him for her share in the trouble he had taken in this

transaction; and then asked if Mrs Delvile continued well.

“Yes,” answered he, with a smile half reproachful, “as well as one who

having ever hoped your favour, can easily be after finding that hope

disappointed. But much as she has taught her son, there is one lesson

she might perhaps learn from him;--to fly, not seek, those dangerous

indulgences of which the deprivation is the loss of peace!”

He then bowed, and made his exit.

This unexpected reproof, and the yet more unexpected compliment that

accompanied it, in both which more seemed meant than met the ear,

encreased the perturbation into which Cecilia had already been thrown.

It occurred to her that under the sanction of his mother's name, he had

taken an opportunity of making an apology for his own conduct; yet

why avoiding her society, if to that he alluded, should be flying a

dangerous indulgence, she could not understand, since he had so little

reason to fear any repulse in continuing to seek it.

Sorry, however, for the abrupt manner in which she had left Miss

Belfield, she lost not a moment in hastening back to her; but when she

came into the room, she found her employed in looking out of the window,

her eye following some object with such earnestness of attention, that

she perceived not her return.

Cecilia, who could not doubt the motive of her curiosity, had no great

difficulty in forbearing to offer her any interruption. She drew her

head back in a few minutes, and casting it upwards, with her hands

clasped, softly whispered, “Heaven ever shield and bless him! and O may

he never feel such pain as I do!”

She then again looked out, but soon drawing herself in, said, in the

same soft accents, “Oh why art thou gone! sweetest and noblest of men!

why might I not see thee longer, when, under heaven, there is no other

blessing I wish for!”

A sigh which at these words escaped Cecilia made her start and turn

towards the door; the deepest blushes overspread the cheeks of both as

their eyes met each other, and while Miss Belfield trembled in every

limb at the discovery she had made, Cecilia herself was hardly able to

stand.

A painful and most embarrassed silence succeeded, which was only broken

by Miss Belfield's bursting into tears.

Cecilia, extremely moved, forgot for a moment her own interest in what

was passing, and tenderly approaching, embraced her with the utmost

kindness; but still she spoke not, fearing to make an enquiry, from

dreading to hear any explanation.

Miss Belfield, soothed by her softness, clung about her, and hiding

her face in her arms, sobbed out, “Ah madam! who ought to be unhappy

if befriended by you! if I could help it, I would love nobody else in

almost the whole world. But you must let me leave you now, and to-morrow

I will tell you every thing.”

Cecilia, who had no wish for making any opposition, embraced her again,

and suffered her quietly to depart.

Her own mind was now in a state of the utmost confusion. The rectitude

of her heart and the soundness of her judgment had hitherto guarded her

both from error and blame, and, except during her recent suspence, had

preserved her tranquility inviolate; but her commerce with the world had

been small and confined, and her actions had had little reference but to

herself. The case was now altered; and she was suddenly in a conjuncture

of all others the most delicate, that of accidentally discovering a

rival in a favourite friend.

The fondness she had conceived for Miss Belfield, and the sincerity of

her intentions as well as promises to serve her, made the detection of

this secret peculiarly cruel; she had lately felt no pleasure but in her

society, and looked forward to much future comfort from the continuance

of her regard, and from their constantly living together; but now this

was no longer even to be desired, since the utter annihilation of the

wishes of both, by young Delvile's being disposed of to a third person,

could alone render eligible their dwelling under the same roof.

Her pity, however, for Miss Belfield was almost wholly unallayed by

jealousy; she harboured not any suspicion that she was loved by young

Delvile, whose aspiring spirit led her infinitely more to fear some

higher rival, than to believe he bestowed even a thought upon the poor

Henrietta; but still she wished with the utmost ardour to know the

length of their acquaintance, how often they had met, when they had

conversed, what notice he had taken of her, and how so dangerous a

preference had invaded her heart.

But though this curiosity was both natural and powerful, her principal

concern was the arrangement of her own conduct; the next day Miss

Belfield was to tell her every thing by a voluntary promise; but she

doubted if she had any right to accept such a confidence. Miss Belfield,

she was sure, knew not she was interested in the tale, since she had not

even imagined that Delvile was known to her. She might hope, therefore,

not only for advice but assistance, and fancy that while she reposed her

secret in the bosom of a friend, she secured herself her best offices

and best wishes for ever.

Would she obtain them? no; the most romantic generosity would revolt

from such a demand, for however precarious was her own chance with young

Delvile, Miss Belfield she was sure could not have any; neither her

birth nor education fitted her for his rank in life, and even were

both unexceptionable, the smallness of her fortune, as Mr Monckton had

instructed her, would be an obstacle insurmountable.

Would it not be a kind of treachery to gather from her every thing, yet

aid her in nothing? to take advantage of her unsuspicious openness in

order to learn all that related to one whom she yet hoped would belong

ultimately to herself, and gratify an interested curiosity at the

expence of a candour not more simple than amiable? “No,” cried Cecilia,

“arts that I could never forgive, I never will practice; this sweet, but

unhappy girl shall tell me nothing; betrayed already by the tenderness

of her own heart, she shall at least suffer no further from any

duplicity in mine. If, indeed, Mr Delvile, as I suspect, is engaged

elsewhere, I will make this gentle Henrietta the object of my future

solicitude; the sympathy of our situations will not then divide but

unite us, and I will take her to my bosom, hear all her sorrows, and

calm her troubled spirit by participating in her sensibility. But if, on

the contrary, this mystery ends more happily for myself, if Mr Delvile

has now no other engagement, and hereafter clears his conduct to my

satisfaction, I will not be accessory to loading her future recollection

with the shame of a confidence she then cannot but repent, nor with an

injury to her delicacy that may wound it for ever.”

She determined, therefore, carefully to avoid the subject for the

present, since she could offer no advice for which she might not,

hereafter, be suspected of selfish motives; but yet, from a real regard

to the tender-hearted girl, to give all the tacit discouragement that

was in her power, to a passion which she firmly believed would be

productive of nothing but misery.

Once, from the frankness natural to her disposition, she thought not

merely of receiving but returning her confidence; her better judgment,

however, soon led her from so hazardous a plan, which could only have

exposed them both to a romantic humiliation, by which, in the end, their

mutual expectations might prove sources of mutual distrust.

When Miss Belfield, therefore, the next morning, her air unusually

timid, and her whole face covered with blushes, made her visit, Cecilia,

not seeming to notice her confusion, told her she was very sorry she was

obliged to go out herself, and contrived, under various pretences,

to keep her maid in the room. Miss Belfield, supposing this to be

accidental, rejoiced in her imaginary reprieve, and soon recovered

her usual chearfulness; and Cecilia, who really meant to call upon Mrs

Delvile, borrowed Mrs Harrel's carriage, and set down her artless young

friend at her new lodgings in Portland-street, before she proceeded

to St James's-square, talking the whole time upon matters of utter

indifference.

CHAPTER v. -- A SARCASM.

The reproach which Cecilia had received from young Delvile in the name

of his mother, determined her upon making this visit; for though, in her

present uncertainty, she wished only to see that family when sought by

themselves, she was yet desirous to avoid all appearance of singularity,

lest any suspicions should be raised of her sentiments.

Mrs Delvile received her with a cold civility that chilled and afflicted

her; she found her seriously offended by her long absence, and now for

the first time perceived that haughtiness of character which hitherto

she had thought only given to her by the calumny of envy; for though

her displeasure was undisguised, she deigned not to make any reproaches,

evidently shewing that her disappointment in the loss of her society,

was embittered by a proud regret for the kindness she believed she had

thrown away. But though she scrupulously forbore the smallest complaint,

she failed not from time to time to cast out reflections upon fickleness

and caprice the most satirical and pointed.

Cecilia, who could not possibly avow the motives of her behaviour,

ventured not to offer any apology for her apparent negligence; but,

hitherto accustomed to the most distinguished kindness, a change to so

much bitterness shocked and overpowered her, and she sat almost wholly

silent, and hardly able to look up.

Lady Honoria Pemberton, a daughter of the Duke of Derwent, now came

into the room, and afforded her some relief by the sprightliness of her

conversation. This young lady, who was a relation of the Delviles, and

of a character the most airy and unthinking, ran on during her whole

visit in a vein of fashionable scandal, with a levity that the censures

of Mrs Delvile, though by no means spared, had no power to [controul];

and, after having completely ransacked the topics of the day, she turned

suddenly to Cecilia, with whom during her residence in St James's-square

she had made some acquaintance, and said, “So I hear, Miss Beverley,

that after half the town has given you to Sir Robert Floyer, and the

other half to my Lord Derford, you intend, without regarding one side or

the other, to disappoint them both, and give yourself to Mr Marriot.”

“Me? no, indeed,” answered Cecilia, “your ladyship has been much

misinformed.”

“I hope so,” said Mrs Delvile, “for Mr Marriot, by all I ever heard

of him, seems to have but one recommendation, and that the last Miss

Beverley ought to value, a good estate.”

Cecilia, secretly delighted by a speech which she could not resist

flattering herself had reference to her son, now a little revived, and

endeavoured to bear some part in the conversation.

“Everybody one meets,” cried Lady Honoria, “disposes of Miss Beverley to

some new person; yet the common opinion is that Sir Robert Floyer will

be the man. But upon my word, for my own part, I cannot conjecture how

she will manage among them, for Mr Marriot declares he's determined he

won't be refused, and Sir Robert vows that he'll never give her up. So

we none of us know how it will end; but I am vastly glad she keeps them

so long in suspence.”

“If there is any suspence,” said Cecilia, “I am at least sure it must be

wilful. But why should your ladyship rejoice in it?”

“O, because it helps to torment them, and keeps something going forward.

Besides, we are all looking in the news-papers every day, to see when

they'll fight another duel for you.”

“Another?” cried Cecilia; “indeed they have never yet fought any for

me.”

“O, I beg your pardon,” answered her ladyship, “Sir Robert, you know,

fought one for you in the beginning of the winter, with that Irish

fortune-hunter who affronted you at the Opera.”

“Irish fortune-hunter?” repeated Cecilia, “how strangely has that

quarrel been misrepresented! In the first place, I never was affronted

at the Opera at all, and in the second, if your Ladyship means Mr

Belfield, I question if he ever was in Ireland in his life.”

“Well,” cried Lady Honoria, “he might come from Scotland, for aught

I know, but somewhere he certainly came from; and they tell me he is

wounded terribly, and Sir Robert has had all his things packed up this

month, that in case he should die, he may go abroad in a moment.”

“And pray where, Lady Honoria,” cried Mrs Delvile, “do you contrive to

pick up all this rattle?”

“O, I don't know; everybody tells me something, so I put it all together

as well as I can. But I could acquaint you with a stranger piece of news

than any you have heard yet.”

“And what is that?”

“O, if I let you know it, you'll tell your son.”

“No indeed,” said Mrs Delvile laughing, “I shall probably forget it

myself.”

She then made some further difficulty, and Cecilia, uncertain if she was

meant to be a party in the communication, strolled to a window; where,

however, as Lady Honoria did not lower her voice, she heard her say “Why

you must know I am told he keeps a mistress somewhere in Oxford-Road.

They say she's mighty pretty; I should like vastly to see her.”

The consternation of Cecilia at this intelligence would certainly

have betrayed all she so much wished to conceal, had not her fortunate

removal to the window guarded her from observation. She kept her post,

fearing to look round, but was much pleased when Mrs Delvile, with

great indignation answered “I am sorry, Lady Honoria, you can find any

amusement in listening to such idle scandal, which those who tell will

never respect you for hearing. In times less daring in slander, the

character of Mortimer would have proved to him a shield from all

injurious aspersions; yet who shall wonder he could not escape, and

who shall contemn the inventors of calumny, if Lady Honoria Pemberton

condescends to be entertained with it?”

“Dear Mrs Delvile,” cried Lady Honoria, giddily, “you take me too

seriously.”

“And dear Lady Honoria,” said Mrs Delvile, “I would it were possible to

make you take yourself seriously; for could you once see with clearness

and precision how much you lower your own dignity, while you stoop

to depreciate that of others, the very subjects that now make your

diversion, would then, far more properly, move your resentment.”

“Ay but, dear madam,” cried Lady Honoria, “if that were the case, I

should be quite perfect, and then you and I should never quarrel, and I

don't know what we should do for conversation.”

And with these words, hastily shaking hands with her, she took leave.

“Such conversation,” said Mrs Delvile when she was gone, “as results

from the mixture of fruitless admonition with incorrigible levity, would

be indeed more honoured in the breach than the observance. But levity

is so much the fashionable characteristic of the present age, that a gay

young girl who, like Lady Honoria Pemberton, rules the friends by whom

she ought to be ruled, had little chance of escaping it.”

“She seems so open, however, to reproof,” said Cecilia, “that I should

hope in a short time she may also be open to conviction.”

“No,” answered Mrs Delvile, “I have no hope of her at all. I once took

much pains with her; but I soon found that the easiness with which she

hears of her faults, is only another effect of the levity with which

she commits them. But if the young are never tired of erring in conduct,

neither are the older in erring in judgment; the fallibility of mine I

have indeed very lately experienced.”

Cecilia, who strongly felt the poignancy of this sarcasm, and whose

constant and unaffected value of Mrs Delvile by no means deserved it,

was again silenced, and again most cruelly depressed; nor could she

secretly forbear repining that at the very moment she found herself

threatened with a necessity of foregoing the society of her new

favourite, Miss Belfield, the woman in the whole world whom she most

wished to have for her friend, from an unhappy mistake was ready to

relinquish her. Grieved to be thus fallen in her esteem, and shocked

that she could offer no justification, after a short and thoughtful

pause, she gravely arose to take leave.

Mrs Delvile then told her that if she had any business to transact with

Mr Delvile, she advised her to acquaint him with it soon, as the whole

family left town in a few days.

This was a new and severe blow to Cecilia, who sorrowfully repeated “In

a few days, madam?”

“Yes,” answered Mrs Delvile, “I hope you intend to be much concerned?”

“Ah madam!” cried Cecilia, who could no longer preserve her quietness,

“if you knew but half the respect I bear you, but half the sincerity

with which I value and revere you, all protestations would be useless,

for all accusations would be over!”

Mrs Delvile, at once surprised and softened by the warmth of this

declaration, instantly took her hand, and said “They shall now, and for

ever be over, if it pains you to hear them. I concluded that what I said

would be a matter of indifference to you, or all my displeasure would

immediately have been satisfied, when once I had intimated that your

absence had excited it.”

“That I have excited it at all,” answered Cecilia, “gives me indeed

the severest uneasiness; but believe me, madam, however unfortunately

appearances maybe against me, I have always had the highest sense of the

kindness with which you have honoured me, and never has there been the

smallest abatement in the veneration, gratitude, and affection I have

inviolably borne you.”

“You see, then,” said Mrs Delvile with a smile, “that where reproof

takes any effect, it is not received; with that easiness you were just

now admiring; on the contrary, where a concession is made without

pain, it is also made without meaning, for it is not in human nature to

project any amendment without a secret repugnance. That here, however,

you should differ from Lady Honoria Pemberton, who can wonder, when you

are superior to all comparison with her in every thing?”

“Will you then,” said Cecilia, “accept my apology, and forgive me?”

“I will do more,” said Mrs Delvile laughing, “I will forgive you without

an apology; for the truth is I have heard none! But come,” continued

she, perceiving Cecilia much abashed by this comment, “I will enquire no

more about the matter; I am glad to receive my young friend again, and

even half ashamed, deserving as she is, to say how glad!”

She then embraced her affectionately, and owned she had been more

mortified by her fancied desertion than she had been willing to own even

to herself, repeatedly assuring her that for many years she had not

made any acquaintance she so much wished to cultivate, nor enjoyed any

society from which she had derived so much pleasure.

Cecilia, whose eyes glistened with modest joy, while her heart beat

quick with revived expectation, in listening to an effusion of praise

so infinitely grateful to her, found little difficulty in returning her

friendly professions, and, in a few minutes, was not merely reconciled,

but more firmly united with her than ever.

Mrs Delvile insisted upon keeping her to dinner, and Cecilia, but too

happy in her earnestness, readily agreed to send Mrs Harrel an excuse.

Neither of the Mr Delviles spent the day at home, and nothing,

therefore, disturbed or interrupted those glowing and delightful

sensations which spring from a cordial renewal of friendship and

kindness. The report, indeed, of Lady Honoria Pemberton gave her some

uneasiness, yet the flighty character of that lady, and Mrs Delvile's

reply to it, soon made her drive it from her mind.

She returned home early in the evening, as other company was expected,

and she had not changed her dress since the morning; but she first made

a promise to see Mrs Delvile some part of every day during the short

time that she meant to remain in town.

CHAPTER vi. -- A SURMISE.

The next morning opened with another scene; Mrs Harrel ran into

Cecilia's room before breakfast, and acquainted her that Mr Harrel had

not been at home all night.

The consternation with which she heard this account she instantly

endeavoured to dissipate, in order to soften the apprehension with which

it was communicated; Mrs Harrel, however, was extremely uneasy, and

sent all the town over to make enquiries, but without receiving any

intelligence.

Cecilia, unwilling to leave her in a state of such alarm, wrote an

excuse to Mrs Delvile, that she might continue with her till some

information was procured. A subject also of such immediate concern, was

sufficient apology for avoiding any particular conversation with Miss

Belfield, who called, as usual, about noon, and whose susceptible heart

was much affected by the evident disturbance in which she found Cecilia.

The whole day passed, and no news arrived; but, greatly to her

astonishment, Mrs Harrel in the evening prepared for going to an

assembly! yet declaring at the same time it was extremely disagreeable

to her, only she was afraid, if she stayed away, every body would

suppose something was the matter.

Who then at last, thought Cecilia, are half so much the slaves of the

world as the gay and the dissipated? Those who work for hire, have

at least their hours of rest, those who labour for subsistence are at

liberty when subsistence is procured; but those who toil to please the

vain and the idle, undertake a task which can never be finished,

however scrupulously all private peace, and all internal comfort, may be

sacrificed in reality to the folly of saving appearances!

Losing, however, the motive for which she had given up her own

engagement, she now sent for her chair, in order to spend an hour or two

with Mrs Delvile. The servants, as they conducted her up stairs, said

they would call their lady; and in entering the drawing-room she saw,

reading and alone, young Delvile.

He seemed much surprised, but received her with the utmost respect,

apologizing for the absence of his mother, whom he said had understood

she was not to see her till the next day, and had left him to write

letters now, that she might then be at liberty.

Cecilia in return made excuses for her seeming inconsistency; after

which, for some time, all conversation dropt.

The silence was at length broken by young Delvile's saying “Mr

Belfield's merit has not been thrown away upon Lord Vannelt; he has

heard an excellent character of him from all his former acquaintance,

and is now fitting up an apartment for him in his own house till his son

begins his tour.”

Cecilia said she was very happy in hearing such intelligence; and then

again they were both silent.

“You have seen,” said young Delvile, after this second pause, “Mr

Belfield's sister?”

Cecilia, not without changing colour, answered “Yes, Sir.”

“She is very amiable,” he continued, “too amiable, indeed, for her

situation, since her relations, her brother alone excepted, are all

utterly unworthy of her.”

He stopt; but Cecilia made no answer, and he presently added “Perhaps

you do not think her amiable?--you may have seen more of her, and know

something to her disadvantage?”

“O no!” cried Cecilia, with a forced alacrity, “but only I was thinking

that--did you say you knew all her relations?”

“No,” he answered, “but when I have been with Mr Belfield, some of them

have called upon him.”

Again they were both silent; and then Cecilia, ashamed of her apparent

backwardness to give praise, compelled herself to say, “Miss Belfield

is indeed a very sweet girl, and I wish--” she stopt, not well knowing

herself what she meant to add.

“I have been greatly pleased,” said he, after waiting some time to hear

if she would finish her speech, “by being informed of your goodness to

her, and I think she seems equally to require and to deserve it. I doubt

not you will extend it to her when she is deprived of her brother, for

then will be the time that by doing her most service, it will reflect on

yourself most honour.”

Cecilia, confounded by this recommendation, faintly answered

“Certainly,--whatever is in my power,--I shall be very glad--”

And just then Mrs Delvile made her appearance, and during the mutual

apologies that followed, her son left the room. Cecilia, glad of any

pretence to leave it also, insisted upon giving no interruption to Mrs

Delvile's letter writing, and having promised to spend all the next day

with her, hurried back to her chair.

The reflections that followed her thither were by no means the most

soothing; she began now to apprehend that the pity she had bestowed upon

Miss Belfield, Miss Belfield in a short time might bestow upon her; at

any other time, his recommendation would merely have served to confirm

her opinion of his benevolence, but in her present state of anxiety

and uncertainty, every thing gave birth to conjecture, and had power to

alarm her. He had behaved to her of late with the strangest coldness

and distance,--his praise of Henrietta had been ready and

animated,--Henrietta she knew adored him, and she knew not with what

reason,--but an involuntary suspicion arose in her mind, that the

partiality she had herself once excited, was now transferred to that

little dreaded, but not less dangerous rival.

Yet, if such was the case, what was to become either of the pride or

the interest of his family? Would his relations ever pardon an alliance

stimulated neither by rank nor riches? would Mr Delvile, who hardly

ever spoke but to the high-born, without seeming to think his dignity

somewhat injured, deign to receive for a daughter-in-law the child of a

citizen and tradesman? would Mrs Delvile herself, little less elevated

in her notions, though infinitely softer in her manners, ever condescend

to acknowledge her? Cecilia's own birth and connections, superior as

they were to those of Miss Belfield, were even openly disdained by Mr

Delvile, and all her expectations of being received into his family

were founded upon the largeness of her fortune, in favour of which the

brevity of her genealogy might perhaps pass unnoticed. But what was the

chance of Miss Belfield, who neither had ancestors to boast, nor wealth

to allure?

This thought, however, awakened all the generosity of her soul; “If,”

cried she, “the advantages I possess are merely those of riches, how

little should I be flattered by any appearance of preference! and how

ill can I judge with what sincerity it may be offered! happier in that

case is the lowly Henrietta, who to poverty may attribute neglect, but

who can only be sought and caressed from motives of purest regard. She

loves Mr Delvile, loves him with the most artless affection;--perhaps,

too, he loves her in return,--why else his solicitude to know my opinion

of her, and why so sudden his alarm when he thought it unfavourable?

Perhaps he means to marry her, and to sacrifice to her innocence and

her attractions all plans of ambition, and all views of

aggrandizement;--thrice happy Henrietta, if such is thy prospect of

felicity! to have inspired a passion so disinterested, may humble the

most insolent of thy superiors, and teach even the wealthiest to envy

thee!”

CHAPTER vii. -- A BOLD STROKE.

When Cecilia returned home, she heard with much concern that no tidings

of Mr Harrel had yet been obtained. His lady, who did not stay out late,

was now very seriously frightened, and entreated Cecilia to sit up with

her till some news could be procured; she sent also for her brother, and

they all three, in trembling expectation of what was to ensue, passed

the whole night in watching.

At six o'clock in the morning, Mr Arnott besought his sister and Cecilia

to take some rest, promising to go out himself to every place where

Mr Harrel was known to resort, and not to return without bringing some

account of him.

Mrs Harrel, whose feelings were not very acute, finding the persuasions

of her brother were seconded by her own fatigue, consented to follow his

advice, and desired him to begin his search immediately.

A few moments after he was gone, while Mrs Harrel and Cecilia were

upon the stairs, they were startled by a violent knocking at the door;

Cecilia, prepared for some calamity, hurried her friend back to the

drawing-room, and then flying out of it again to enquire who entered,

saw to her equal surprize and relief, Mr Harrel himself.

She ran back with the welcome information, and he instantly followed

her; Mrs Harrel eagerly told him of her fright, and Cecilia expressed

her pleasure at his return; but the satisfaction of neither was of long

duration.

He came into the room with a look of fierceness the most terrifying, his

hat on, and his arms folded. He made no answer to what they said, but

pushed back the door with his foot, and flung himself upon a sofa.

Cecilia would now have withdrawn, but Mrs Harrel caught her hand to

prevent her. They continued some minutes in this situation, and then Mr

Harrel, suddenly rising, called-out “Have you any thing to pack up?”

“Pack up?” repeated Mrs Harrel, “Lord bless me, for what?”

“I am going abroad,” he answered; “I shall set off to-morrow.”

“Abroad?” cried she, bursting into tears, “I am sure I hope not!”

“Hope nothing!” returned he, in a voice of rage; and then, with a

dreadful oath, he ordered her to leave him and pack up.

Mrs Harrel, wholly unused to such treatment, was frightened into violent

hysterics; of which, however, he took no notice, but swearing at her for

a fool who had been the cause of his ruin, he left the room.

Cecilia, though she instantly rang the bell, and hastened to her

assistance, was so much shocked by this unexpected brutality, that she

scarcely knew how to act, or what to order. Mrs Harrel, however, soon

recovered, and Cecilia accompanied her to her own apartment, where she

stayed, and endeavoured to sooth her till Mr Arnott returned.

The terrible state in which Mr Harrel had at last come home was

immediately communicated to him, and his sister entreated him to use

all his influence that the scheme for going abroad might be deferred, at

least, if not wholly given up.

Fearfully he went on the embassy, but speedily, and with a look

wholly dismayed, he returned. Mr Harrel, he said, told him that he had

contracted a larger debt of honour than he had any means to raise, and

as he could not appear till it was paid, he was obliged to quit the

kingdom without delay.

“Oh brother!” cried Mrs Harrel, “and can you suffer us to go?”

“Alas, my dear sister,” answered he, “what can I do to prevent it? and

who, if I too am ruined, will in future help you?”

Mrs Harrel then wept bitterly, nor could the gentle Mr Arnott, forbear,

while he tried to comfort her, mixing his own tears with those of

his beloved sister; but Cecilia, whose reason was stronger, and whose

justice was offended, felt other sensations; and leaving Mrs Harrel to

the care of her brother, whose tenderness she infinitely compassionated,

she retreated into her own room. Not, however, to rest; the dreadful

situation of the family made her forget she wanted it, but to deliberate

upon what course she ought herself to pursue.

She determined without any hesitation against accompanying them in their

flight, as the irreparable injury she was convinced she had already done

her fortune, was more than sufficient to satisfy the most romantic

ideas of friendship and humanity; but her own place of abode must now

immediately be changed, and her choice rested only between Mr Delvile

and Mr Briggs.

Important as were the obstacles which opposed her residence at Mr

Delvile's, all that belonged to inclination and to happiness encouraged

it; while with respect to Mr Briggs, though the objections were lighter,

there was not a single allurement. Yet whenever the suspicion recurred

to her that Miss Belfield was beloved by young Delvile, she resolved

at all events to avoid him; but when better hopes intervened, and

represented that his enquiries were probably accidental, the wish of

being finally acquainted with his sentiments, made nothing so desirable

as an intercourse more frequent.

Such still was her irresolution, when she received a message from Mr

Arnott to entreat the honour of seeing her. She immediately went down

stairs, and found him in the utmost distress, “O Miss Beverley,” he

cried, “what can I do for my sister! what can I possibly devise to

relieve her affliction!”

“Indeed I know not!” said Cecilia, “but the utter impracticability of

preparing her for this blow, obviously as it has long been impending,

makes it now fall so heavily I wish much to assist her,--but a debt so

unjustifiably contracted--”

“O madam,” interrupted he, “imagine not I sent to you with so

treacherous a view as to involve you in our misery; far too unworthily

has your generosity already been abused. I only wish to consult with you

what I can do for my sister.”

Cecilia, after some little consideration, proposed that Mrs Harrel

should still be left in England, and under their joint care.

“Alas!” cried he, “I have already made that proposal, but Mr Harrel will

not go without her, though his whole behaviour is so totally altered,

that I fear to trust her with him.”

“Who is there, then, that has more weight with him?” said Cecilia,

“shall we send for Sir Robert Floyer to second our request?”

To this Mr Arnott assented, forgetting in his apprehension of losing his

sister, the pain he should suffer from the interference of his rival.

The Baronet presently arrived, and Cecilia, not chusing to apply to him

herself, left him with Mr Arnott, and waited for intelligence in the

library.

In about an hour after, Mrs Harrel ran into the room, her tears dried

up, and out of breath with joy, and called out “My dearest friend, my

fate is now all in your hands, and I am sure you will not refuse to make

me happy.”

“What is it I can do for you?” cried Cecilia, dreading some

impracticable proposal; “ask me not, I beseech you, what I cannot

perform!”

“No, no,” answered she, “What I ask requires nothing but good nature;

Sir Robert Floyer has been begging Mr Harrel to leave me behind, and he

has promised to comply, upon condition you will hasten your marriage,

and take me into your own house.”

“My marriage!” cried the astonished Cecilia.

Here they were joined by Mr Harrel himself, who repeated the same offer.

“You both amaze and shock me!” cried Cecilia, “what is it you mean, and

why do you talk to me so wildly?”

“Miss Beverley,” cried Mr Harrel, “it is high time now to give up this

reserve, and trifle no longer with a gentleman so unexceptionable as Sir

Robert Floyer. The whole town has long acknowledged him as your husband,

and you are every where regarded as his bride, a little frankness,

therefore, in accepting him, will not only bind him to you for ever, but

do credit to the generosity of your character.”

At that moment Sir Robert himself burst into the room, and seizing one

of her hands, while both of them were uplifted in mute amazement, he

pressed it to his lips, poured forth a volley of such compliments as

he had never before prevailed with himself to utter, and confidently

entreated her to complete his long-attended happiness without the

cruelty of further delay.

Cecilia, almost petrified by the excess of her surprise, at an attack so

violent, so bold, and apparently so sanguine, was for some time scarce

able to speak or to defend herself; but when Sir Robert, presuming on

her silence, said she had made him the happiest of men, she indignantly

drew back her hand, and with a look of displeasure that required little

explanation, would have walked out of the room; when Mr Harrel, in a

tone of bitterness and disappointment, called out “Is this lady-like

tyranny then never to end?” And Sir Robert, impatiently following her,

said “And is my suspense to endure for ever? After so many months'

attendance--”

“This, indeed, is something too much,” said Cecilia, turning back, “You

have been kept, Sir, in no suspense; the whole tenor of my conduct has

uniformly declared the same disapprobation I at present avow, and which

my letter, at least, must have put beyond all doubt.”

“Harrel,” exclaimed Sir Robert, “did not you tell me--”

“Pho, Pho,” cried Harrel, “what signifies calling upon me? I never saw

in Miss Beverley any disapprobation beyond what it is customary for

young ladies of a sentimental turn to shew; and every body knows that

where a gentleman is allowed to pay his devoirs for any length of time,

no lady intends to use him very severely.”

“And can you, Mr Harrel,” said Cecilia, “after such conversations as

have passed between us, persevere in this wilful misapprehension? But

it is vain to debate where all reasoning is disregarded, or to make any

protestations where even rejection is received as a favour.”

And then, with an air of disdain, she insisted upon passing them, and

went to her own room.

Mrs Harrel, however, still followed, and clinging round her, still

supplicated her pity and compliance.

“What infatuation is this!” cried Cecilia, “is it possible that you,

too, can suppose I ever mean to accept Sir Robert?”

“To be sure I do,” answered she, “for Mr Harrel has told me a thousand

times, that however you played the prude, you would be his at last.”

Cecilia, though doubly irritated against Mr Harrel, was now appeased

with his lady, whose mistake, however ill-founded, offered an excuse

for her behaviour; but she assured her in the strongest terms that her

repugnance to the Baronet was unalterable, yet told her she might claim

from her every good office that was not wholly unreasonable.

These were words of slender comfort to Mrs Harrel, who well knew that

her wishes and reason had but little affinity, and she soon, therefore,

left the room.

Cecilia then resolved to go instantly to Mrs Delvile, acquaint her with

the necessity of her removal, and make her decision whither, according

to the manner in which her intelligence should be received.

She sent, therefore, to order a chair, and was already in the hall, when

she was stopt by the entrance of Mr Monckton, who, addressing her with

a look of haste and earnestness, said, “I will not ask whither you are

going so early, or upon what errand, for I must beg a moment's audience,

be your business what it may.”

Cecilia then accompanied him to the deserted breakfast room, which none

but the servants had this morning entered, and there, grasping her hand,

he said, “Miss Beverley, you must fly this house directly! it is the

region of disorder and licentiousness, and unfit to contain you.”

She assured him she was that moment preparing to quit it, but begged he

would explain himself.

“I have taken care,” he answered, “for some time past, to be well

informed of all the proceedings of Mr Harrel; and the intelligence I

procured this morning is of the most alarming nature. I find he spent

the night before the last entirely at a gaming table, where, intoxicated

by a run of good luck, he passed the whole of the next day in rioting

with his profligate intimates, and last night, returning again to his

favourite amusement, he not only lost all he had gained, but much more

than he could pay. Doubt not, therefore, but you will be called upon to

assist him; he still considers you as his resource in times of danger,

and while he knows you are under his roof, he will always believe

himself secure.”

“Every thing indeed conspires,” said Cecilia, more shocked than

surprised at this account, “to make it necessary I should quit his

house; yet I do not think he has at present any further expectations

from me, as he came into the room this morning not merely without

speaking to me, but behaved with a brutality to Mrs Harrel that he must

be certain would give me disgust. It shewed me, indeed, a new part of

his character, for ill as I have long thought of him, I did not suspect

he could be guilty of such unmanly cruelty.”

“The character of a gamester,” said Mr Monckton, “depends solely upon

his luck; his disposition varies with every throw of the dice, and he

is airy, gay and good humoured, or sour, morose and savage, neither from

nature nor from principle, but wholly by the caprice of chance.”

Cecilia then related to him the scene in which she had just been engaged

with Sir Robert Floyer.

“This,” cried he, “is a manoeuvre I have been some time expecting; but

Mr Harrel, though artful and selfish, is by no means deep. The plan

he had formed would have succeeded with some women, and he therefore

concluded it would with all. So many of your sex have been subdued

by perseverance, and so many have been conquered by boldness, that he

supposed when he united two such powerful besiegers in the person of

a Baronet, he should vanquish all obstacles. By assuring you that the

world thought the marriage already settled, he hoped to surprise you

into believing there was no help for it, and by the suddenness and

vehemence of the attack, to frighten and hurry you into compliance.

His own wife, he knew, might have been managed thus with ease, and so,

probably, might his sister, and his mother, and his cousin, for in love

matters, or what are so called, women in general are, readily duped. He

discerned not the superiority of your understanding to tricks so shallow

and impertinent, nor the firmness of your mind in maintaining its own

independence. No doubt but he was amply to have been rewarded for his

assistance, and probably had you this morning been propitious, the

Baronet in return was to have cleared him from his present difficulty.”

“Even in my own mind,” said Cecilia, “I can no longer defend him, for he

could never have been so eager to promote the interest of Sir Robert,

in the present terrible situation of his own affairs, had he not been

stimulated by some secret motives. His schemes and his artifices,

however, will now be utterly lost upon me, since your warning and

advice, aided by my own suffering experience of the inutility of all I

can do for him, will effectually guard me from all his future attempts.”

“Rest no security upon yourself,” said Mr Monckton, “since you have

no knowledge of the many tricks and inventions by which you may yet

be plundered. Perhaps he may beg permission to reside in your house in

Suffolk, or desire an annuity for his wife, or chuse to receive your

first rents when you come of age; and whatever he may fix upon, his

dagger and his bowl will not fail to procure him. A heart so liberal as

yours can only be guarded by flight. You were going, you said, when I

came,--and whither?”

“To--to St James's-square,” answered she, with a deep blush.

“Indeed!--is young Delvile, then, going abroad?”

“Abroad?--no,--I believe not.”

“Nay, I only imagined it from your chusing to reside in his house.”

“I do not chuse it,” cried Cecilia, with quickness, “but is not any

thing preferable to dwelling with Mr Briggs?”

“Certainly,” said Mr Monckton coolly, “nor should I have supposed he had

any chance with you, had I not hitherto observed that your convenience

has always been sacrificed to your sense of propriety.”

Cecilia, touched by praise so full of censure, and earnest to vindicate

her delicacy, after an internal struggle, which Mr Monckton was too

subtle to interrupt, protested she would go instantly to Mr Briggs, and

see if it were possible to be settled in his house, before she made any

attempt to fix herself elsewhere.

“And when?” said Mr Monckton.

“I don't know,” answered she, with some hesitation, “perhaps this

afternoon.”

“Why not this morning?”

“I can go out no where this morning; I must stay with Mrs Harrel.”

“You thought otherwise when I came, you were then content to leave her.”

Cecilia's alacrity, however, for changing her abode, was now at an end,

and she would fain have been left quietly to re-consider her plans; but

Mr Monckton urged so strongly the danger of her lengthened stay in the

house of so designing a man as Mr Harrel, that he prevailed with her to

quit it without delay, and had himself the satisfaction of handing her

to her chair.

CHAPTER viii. -- A MISER'S MANSION.

Mr Briggs was at home, and Cecilia instantly and briefly informed him

that it was inconvenient for her to live any longer at Mr Harrel's, and

that if she could be accommodated at his house, she should be glad to

reside with him during the rest of her minority.

“Shall, shall,” cried he, extremely pleased, “take you with all my

heart. Warrant Master Harrel's made a good penny of you. Not a bit the

better for dressing so fine; many a rogue in a gold lace hat.”

Cecilia begged to know what apartments he could spare for her.

“Take you up stairs,” cried he, “shew you a place for a queen.”

He then led her up stairs, and took her to a room entirely dark, and so

close for want of air that she could hardly breathe in it. She retreated

to the landing-place till he had opened the shutters, and then saw an

apartment the most forlorn she had ever beheld, containing no other

furniture than a ragged stuff bed, two worn-out rush-bottomed chairs, an

old wooden box, and a bit of broken glass which was fastened to the wall

by two bent nails.

“See here, my little chick,” cried he, “everything ready! and a box for

your gimcracks into the bargain.”

“You don't mean this place for me, Sir!” cried Cecilia, staring.

“Do, do;” cried he, “a deal nicer by and by. Only wants a little

furbishing; soon put to rights. Never sweep a room out of use; only

wears out brooms for nothing.”

“But, Sir, can I not have an apartment on the first floor?”

“No, no, something else to do with it; belongs to the club; secrets in

all things! Make this do well enough. Come again next week; wear quite a

new face. Nothing wanting but a table; pick you up one at a broker's.”

“But I am obliged, Sir, to leave Mr Harrel's house directly.”

“Well, well, make shift without a table at first; no great matter if

you ha'n't one at all, nothing particular to do with it. Want another

blanket, though. Know where to get one; a very good broker hard by.

Understand how to deal with him! A close dog, but warm.”

“I have also two servants, Sir,” said Cecilia.

“Won't have 'em! Sha'n't come! Eat me out of house and home.”

“Whatever they eat, Sir,” answered she, “will be wholly at my expence,

as will everything else that belongs to them.”

“Better get rid of them; hate servants; all a pack of rogues; think of

nothing but stuffing and guzzling.”

Then opening another door, “See here,” he cried, “my own room just by;

snug as a church!”

Cecilia, following him into it, lost a great part of her surprise at

the praise he had lavished upon that which he destined for herself, by

perceiving that his own was yet more scantily furnished, having nothing

in it but a miserable bed without any curtains, and a large chest,

which, while it contained his clothes, sufficed both for table and

chair.

“What are doing here?” cried he angrily, to a maid who was making the

bed, “can't you take more care? beat 'out all the feathers, see! two on

the ground; nothing but waste and extravagance! never mind how soon a

man's ruined. Come to want, you slut, see that, come to want!”

“I can never want more than I do here,” said the girl, “so that's one

comfort.”

Cecilia now began to repent she had made known the purport of her visit,

for she found it would be utterly impossible to accommodate either her

mind or her person to a residence such as was here to be obtained and

she only wished Mr Monckton had been present, that he might himself be

convinced of the impracticability of his scheme. Her whole business,

therefore, now, was to retract her offer, and escape from the house.

“I see, Sir,” said she, when he turned from his servant, “that I cannot

be received here without inconvenience, and therefore I will make some

new arrangement in my plan.”

“No, no,” cried he, “like to have you, 'tis but fair, all in our turn;

won't be chorused; Master Harrel's had his share. Sorry could not get

you that sweetheart! would not bite; soon find out another; never fret.”

“But there are so many things with which I cannot possibly dispense,”

said Cecilia, “that I am certain my removing hither would occasion you

far more trouble than you at present foresee.”

“No, no; get all in order soon; go about myself; know how to bid;

understand trap; always go shabby; no making a bargain in a good coat.

Look sharp at the goods; say they won't do; come away; send somebody

else for 'em. Never go twice myself; nothing got cheap if one seems to

have a hankering.”

“But I am sure it is not possible,” said Cecilia, hurrying down stairs,

“that my room, and one for each of my servants, should be ready in

time.”

“Yes, yes,” cried he, following her, “ready in a trice. Make a little

shift at first; double the blanket till we get another; lie with the

maid a night or two; never stand for a trifle.”

And, when she was seated in her chair, the whole time disclaiming her

intention of returning, he only pinched her cheek with a facetious

smirk, and said, “By, by, little duck; come again soon. Warrant I'll

have the room ready. Sha'n't half know it again; make it as smart as a

carrot.”

And then she left the house; fully satisfied that no one could blame her

refusing to inhabit it, and much less chagrined than she was willing to

suppose herself, in finding she had now no resource but in the Delviles.

Yet, in her serious reflections, she could not but think herself

strangely unfortunate that the guardian with whom alone it seemed proper

for her to reside, should by parsimony, vulgarity, and meanness, render

riches contemptible, prosperity unavailing, and economy odious; and

that the choice of her uncle should thus unhappily have fallen upon the

lowest and most wretched of misers, in a city abounding with opulence,

hospitality, and splendour, and of which the principal inhabitants, long

eminent for their wealth and their probity, were now almost universally

rising in elegance and liberality.

CHAPTER ix. -- A DECLARATION.

Cecilia's next progress, therefore, was to St James's-square, whither

she went in the utmost anxiety, from her uncertainty of the reception

with which her proposal would meet.

The servants informed her that Mr and Mrs Delvile were at breakfast, and

that the Duke of Derwent and his two daughters were with them.

Before such witnesses to relate the reasons of her leaving the Harmless

was impossible; and from such a party to send for Mrs Delvile, would,

by her stately guardian, be deemed an indecorum unpardonable. She was

obliged, therefore, to return to Portman-square, in order to open her

cause in a letter to Mrs Delvile.

Mr Arnott, flying instantly to meet her, called out, “O madam, what

alarm has your absence occasioned! My sister believed she should see you

no more, Mr Harrel feared a premature discovery of his purposed retreat,

and we have all been under the cruellest apprehensions lest you meant

not to come back.”

“I am sorry I spoke not with you before I went out,” said Cecilia,

accompanying him to the library, “but I thought you were all too much

occupied to miss me. I have been, indeed, preparing for a removal, but

I meant not to leave your sister without bidding her adieu, nor, indeed,

to quit any part of the family with so little ceremony. Is Mr Harrel

still firm to his last plan?”

“I fear so! I have tried what is possible to dissuade him, and my

poor sister has wept without ceasing. Indeed, if she will take no

consolation, I believe I shall do what she pleases, for I cannot bear

the sight of her in such distress.”

“You are too generous, and too good!” said Cecilia, “and I know not how,

while flying from danger myself, to forbear counselling you to avoid it

also.”

“Ah madam!” cried he, “the greatest danger for me is what I have now no

power to run from!”

Cecilia, though she could not but understand him, felt not the less his

friend for knowing him the humblest of her admirers; and as she saw

the threatening ruin to which his too great tenderness exposed him, she

kindly said “Mr Arnott, I will speak, to you without reserve. It is not

difficult to see that the destruction which awaits Mr Harrel, is ready

also to ensnare his brother-in-law; but let not that blindness to the

future which we have so often lamented for him, hereafter be lamented

for yourself. Till his present connections are broken, and his way of

living is changed, nothing can be done for him, and whatever you were to

advance, would merely be sunk at the gaming table. Reserve, therefore,

your liberality till it may indeed be of service to him, for believe me,

at present, his mind is as much injured as his fortune.”

“And is it possible, madam,” said Mr Arnott, in an accent of surprize

and delight, “that you can deign to be interested in what may become of

me! and that my sharing or escaping the ruin of this house is not wholly

indifferent to you?”

“Certainly not,” answered Cecilia; “as the brother of my earliest

friend, I can never be insensible to your welfare.”

“Ah madam!” cried he, “as her brother!--Oh that there were any other

tie!--”

“Think a little,” said Cecilia, preparing to quit the room, “of what I

have mentioned, and, for your sister's sake, be firm now, if you would

be kind hereafter.”

“I will be any and every thing,” cried he, “that Miss Beverley will

command.”

Cecilia, fearful of any misinterpretation, then came back, and gravely

said, “No, Sir, be ruled only by your own judgment; or, should my

advice have any weight with you, remember it is given from the most

disinterested motives, and with no other view than that of securing your

power to be of service to your sister.”

“For that sister's sake, then, have the goodness to hear my situation,

and honour me with further directions.”

“You will make me fear to speak,” said Cecilia, “if you give so much

consequence to my opinion. I have seen, however, nothing in your conduct

I have ever wished changed, except too little attention to your own

interest and affairs.”

“Ah!” cried he, “with what rapture should I hear those words, could I

but imagine--”

“Come, come,” said Cecilia, smiling, “no digression! You called me back

to talk of your sister; if you change your subject, perhaps you may lose

your auditor.”

“I would not, madam, for the world encroach upon your goodness; the

favour I have found has indeed always exceeded my expectations, as it

has always surpassed my desert; yet has it never blinded me to my own

unworthiness. Do not, then, fear to indulge me with your conversation;

I shall draw from it no inference but of pity, and though pity from Miss

Beverley is the sweetest balm to my heart, it shall never seduce me to

the encouragement of higher hopes.”

Cecilia had long had reason to expect such a declaration, yet she

heard it with unaffected concern, and looking at him with the utmost

gentleness, said “Mr Arnott, your regard does me honour, and, were it

somewhat more rational, would give me pleasure; take, then, from it

what is more than I wish or merit, and, while you preserve the rest, be

assured it will be faithfully returned.”

“Your rejection is so mild,” cried he, “that I, who had no hope of

acceptance, find relief in having at last told my sufferings. Could

I but continue to see you every day, and to be blest with your

conversation, I think I should be happy, and I am sure I should be

grateful.”

“You are already,” answered she, shaking her head, and moving towards

the door, “infringing the conditions upon which our friendship is to be

founded.”

“Do not go, madam,” he cried, “till I have done what you have just

promised to permit, acquainted you with my situation, and been honoured

with your advice. I must own to you, then, that £5000, which I had in

the stocks, as well as a considerable sum in a banker's hands, I have

parted with, as I now find for ever but I have no heart for refusal,

nor would my sister at this moment be thus distressed, but that I have

nothing more to give without I cut down my trees, or sell some farm,

since all I was worth, except my landed property, is already gone. What,

therefore, I can now do to save Mr Harrel from this desperate expedition

I know not.”

“I am sorry,” said Cecilia, “to speak with severity of one so nearly

connected with you, yet, suffer me to ask, why should he be saved from

it at all? and what is there he can at present do better? Has not he

long been threatened with every evil that is now arrived? have we not

both warned him, and have not the clamours of his creditors assailed

him? yet what has been the consequence? he has not submitted to the

smallest change in his way of life, he has not denied himself a single

indulgence, nor spared any expence, nor thought of any reformation.

Luxury has followed luxury, and he has only grown fonder of

extravagance, as extravagance has become more dangerous. Till the

present storm, therefore, blows over, leave him to his fate, and when a

calm succeeds, I will myself, for the sake of Priscilla, aid you to save

what is possible of the wreck.”

“All you say, madam, is as wise as it is good, and now I am acquainted

with your opinion, I will wholly new model myself upon it, and grow as

steady against all attacks as hitherto I have been yielding.”

Cecilia was then retiring; but again detaining her, he said “You spoke,

madam, of a removal, and indeed it is high time you should quit this

scene; yet I hope you intend not to go till to-morrow, as Mr Harrel has

declared your leaving him sooner will be his destruction.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Cecilia, “for I mean to be gone with all the speed

in my power.”

“Mr Harrel,” answered he, “did not explain himself; but I believe he

apprehends your deserting his house at this critical time, will raise

a suspicion of his own design of going abroad, and make his creditors

interfere to prevent him.”

“To what a wretched state,” cried Cecilia, “has he reduced himself! I

will not, however, be the voluntary instrument of his disgrace; and if

you think my stay is so material to his security, I will continue here

till to-morrow morning.”

Mr Arnott almost wept his thanks for this concession, and Cecilia, happy

in making it to him instead of Mr Harrel, then went to her own room, and

wrote the following letter to Mrs Delvile.

To the Hon. Mrs Delvile, St James's-square.

PORTMAN SQUARE, June 12.

DEAR MADAM,--I am willing to hope you have been rather surprised that

I have not sooner availed myself of the permission with which you

yesterday honoured me of spending this whole day with you, but,

unfortunately for myself, I am prevented waiting upon you even for any

part of it. Do not, however, think me now ungrateful if I stay away, nor

to-morrow impertinent, if I venture to enquire whether that apartment

which you had once the goodness to appropriate to my use, may then again

be spared for me! The accidents which have prompted this strange request

will, I trust, be sufficient apology for the liberty I take in making

it, when I have the honour to see you, and acquaint you what they

are.--I am, with the utmost respect, Dear Madam, your most obedient

humble servant, CECILIA BEVERLEY.

She would not have been thus concise, had not the caution of Mr Arnott

made her fear, in the present perilous situation of affairs, to trust

the secret of Mr Harrel to paper.

The following answer was returned her from Mrs Delvile;--

To Miss Beverley, Portman-square.

The accidents you mention are not, I hope, of a very serious nature,

since I shall find difficulty insurmountable in trying to lament them,

if they are productive of a lengthened visit from my dear Miss Beverley

to her Faithful humble servant, AUGUSTA DELVILE.

Cecilia, charmed with this note, could now no longer forbear looking

forward to brighter prospects, flattering herself that once under the

roof of Mrs Delvile, she must necessarily be happy, let the engagements

or behaviour of her son be what they might.